Battlefield
by aiiXael
Summary: USUK. Revolutionary war setting.


America bit of a piece of dried meat from his rations, chewing anxiously. It tasted like dust in his mouth, but then everything seemed to since… since they had started fighting. The flames of the camp's fire danced in front of him, and the hum of soldiers flickered in his ears, the sound of laughter and story-telling mingling with the crackling of the flames; happy sounds as if there wasn't a war going on around them. A war that he wasn't even sure he wanted to fight. He couldn't even remember why he had cared so much. It had just been taxes…. Surely if he kept bugging England, he might have understood—might have given him representation.

He wasn't sure how his people were able to laugh and joke even though they were fighting an impossible fight. Honestly, America found himself feeling sick to his stomach more often than not. Even worse was when he felt like it was his fault. When he felt that he was being ungrateful and selfish-when he felt that his Empire was right in everything he was. But…

But he didn't want to serve for anyone any longer; didn't want to be a colony anymore.

He just wanted his freedom; to be on his own.

Wanted everyone to recognize him as an equal; as a country and as a man.

He buried his face in his hands, trying to burn out the uncertainty and the fear. Trying to burn out the memories of England being kind; memories of sweet kisses and tenderness. Trying to remember that he was no longer proud to be British like he'd been for so long; that the title no longer applied to him. He would be American now, and he could be proud of that instead.

If only it didn't feel so wrong.

No one bothered him, didn't ask him what his problem was. While they hadn't known that he was what they were fighting for, that he was the embodiment of all their hopes and dreams, they knew better than to ask him what was wrong. No, they already knew—many of them had the same problem; fighting against their families, their previous nation, their best friends… he wasn't the only one that felt this way, but…

He stood, letting his ration of meat fall to the ground, mixing with the dust and grime. Nausea grew, and he pulled away, turning on his heel, grabbing his musket, and walking out of the camp. He needed a walk, fresh air. Something not tainted with gunpowder and blood. There was a river nearby; perhaps he would go for a swim. Maybe then he could wash away this guilt, and this confusion. He needed to be rid of it.

He was America; he was a country now, no longer a colony.

Alfred tugged his uniform coat more fully around him, defending against the gentle chill growing as the sun settled further in the horizon, straightening out the fabric with shaking hands. A finger flicked over one of the buttons there, simple and silver. He absentmindedly traced the metal. The metal that felt more solid under his skin than anything else, than his freedom.

A breath in—that would change.

He could do this.

It wasn't a long walk to the river, and as he got there, he settled on the banks, listening to the rush of water flowing past. He curled up a little, putting his musket beside him. He wasn't even certain why he'd brought it. The only threats he had to worry about were red-coats and Indians. And he couldn't shoot one of the two, and neither could kill him. Only England could; only England could create the flash that would end it.

He rest his chin against his knees, staring absentmindedly at the water, black and glittering in the moonlight. This was his. This river, the grass beneath him, the trees, the people… his, all of it. It might have felt nice to say that, but there was also that sense that he could screw it up at any moment, that it could be taken from him. It was his to take care of now, there wasn't anyone else to fall back on. The only people he could have asked for advice…. His empire was the one causing this problem, his brother… his brother hated him for fighting against British rule, and his only other father figure… France was too busy hating England and struggling internally to care about what was best. He was on his own. It wasn't the first time in his life, but before he was just a child. He hadn't needed to be careful, or do anything but play in his fields. Alfred missed those days, they were always carefree.

The crunch of military boots on grass sounded behind him, and his head perked up. He whipped around to face the intruder, musket already in hand and aimed.

America's heart stopped when he saw the messy blond hair, the grass-green eyes and the red, red coat of the other side. The British Empire. England. It hurt to look at him, to see the tired disapproval there in his eyes.

"Alfred…"

England didn't draw his gun, nor did he even reach for the sword at his side. Instead, he walked towards the bank of the river, without another word. He didn't sit, though, And America scrambled to his feet. There was a moment when he almost brought the musket with him, but…. He let it fall against the grass and dirt. England's eyes flickered down, watching it roll slightly, wobble, and then fall still.

"It's a good gun," England muttered beneath his breath. He reached down, picking up. America didn't try to stop him. He felt too sick, too confused to do anything but stand there and stare dumbly at his colonizer, at his friend, his brother, his…

Blue eyes watched as the other aimed the gun, looking down the barrel. It was aimed at nothing in particular, though America knew it could swing to his chest in an instant. He remembered vaguely England holding the musket before, shooting at those who were trying to harm him. He remembered learning to fight, to be in war from that experience, but it didn't seem to change anything, didn't help him now. "You've taken good care of it. How many of my soldiers have you killed with my own musket?"

America choked, feeling the other's eyes land on him. He could lie, could tell him he killed hundreds of his soldiers. If it was anyone else in front of him asking, he might have. Heroes were good at fighting, after all. Instead, a wavering, "None," came from his lips, fell into the expectant silence between them.

"None? You're more daft than I thought," England replied, relaxing his hold on the gun, straightening his back. "If you're going to win this war, then you're bloody going to need to be able to shoot someone. You never were good at fighting though. It is why you will lose; it is why you will always be my colony, my little Alfred."

"No," Alfred replied, with a quick shake of his head. "I will win…" But the words felt stale on his tongue, untrue. His England, no matter how much taller than him America grew, always made him feel so small, so young. The age in the other's eyes always made him feel like he was talking to a god, and when those eyes fell on him angry, it was like he was fighting against the world. They weren't angry now. They were empty. It was worse somehow.

"Not if you can't shoot a musket my boy. Or even hold onto one, for that matter," England took a last look at the gun, before slinging the strap around the other's neck, adjusting it until the gun was fit snugly at America's side. "Keep it with you, or you will be shot." England's brows furrowed, creating a rather impressive scowl. He tugged at America's shoulders, pushing in his back. "And bloody hell, would you stop slouching?"

This, perhaps, was the only thing that could make America's lips twitch upward, and he couldn't help but feel a little better at the normalcy to the words, despite the situation that they were in. Despite their war. "You always find something to complain over, don't you?"

"I wouldn't find anything, if you would just listen," England replied, scowl still on his face, though his eyes were a little brighter, a little less tired somehow.

A silence fell over them and Alfred felt his dread returning, the nausea bubbling in his stomach. "Arthur…?" he asked, his voice slightly cracked.

"Yes?"

"I…. I never meant… never meant any of this," the words spilled out before he could stop them. "I never meant to make it this big of deal; I never meant to hurt you or to ruin… our things together. I never meant any of it, Arthur. I just want… I just want freedom, to be equal. Never wanted to fight."

A sigh was dragged from the Brit's lips, and he shook his head. "Yes, you did," he muttered, leaning forward to take the other's jaw in his fingers. He took out a handkerchief from his uniform jacket, spitting on it, then moving to wipe a smudge of dirt off of Alfred's cheek. "You meant everything you did. It doesn't matter, though. You are my colony, and you will always be my colony—_British_ America. I'm not letting you go. When this war is over, and I have won, you will learn your place."

"No," America replied, but he didn't pull away, couldn't bring himself to lose England's touch. He missed it too much. Instead, he cupped that hand to his jaw, nuzzling the calloused palm. "No," he repeated, his voice stronger this time. His spirit was spiking up a little, replacing the nauseous nervousness little by little. "You will recognize me as America. And the only thing that will be in front of that word is not British, but the United States."

"Such a silly boy," Arthur murmured, chuckling low in his throat. He reached up, gently touching the other's hair, running fingers through the golden wheat colour. "A silly boy, with dreams far too bloody big."

"Yeah… that's me. But heroes have big dreams, right?" Alfred replied, leaning down a little, letting England, no, Arthur, pull him until their foreheads were touching, until he could smell the sweet tea and sea salt mixture on the other's breath and skin.

"Git," Arthur muttered, but it held no malice in it. It was just something that he said, something that he would always say to the young American. "But don't lose those dreams. They are mine; you are mine, still," his grip tightened in America's hair, a bit more forceful, almost painful. America didn't mind, didn't care as his empire's lips brushed against his with every few words. Intoxicated with the sea, with Arthur and England and all that he was. "I will take you back, Alfred. Don't you forget it. I will make the sun set on this one dream, and you will be faithful to me again. You will be my Alfred again, my golden boy. _Mine."_

"Never again," Alfred breathed. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, almost nervously; almost able to taste Arthur's lips, almost able to kiss him. So many almosts, never enough needs met, never enough given. It was a reminder to why he had started this war in the first place. "I will be a hero someday. I will stop all the wars, and I will make everyone happy. As America. You'll see. You'll see me conquer the world, just like you did. I will be the strongest someday. You'll see."

And then England was laughing, his grip slackening on the younger nation's hair. His laughter rang out bright and clear on the cool air, and it brightened America's heart. He could feel the ache lessening. It lessened even more when Arthur closed the distance between them, pressing their lips together in a kiss that was both everything and nothing, filling him but not enough. A kiss was never enough for America, never enough for either of them, but it would do. It would have to. England pulled away first, of course, giving the other's lower lip a harsh nip before stepping back. Distance was put between them, and America felt like he could breathe again, like his head was clear for the first time since July forth, when he'd been born again.

"Keep your silly dreams, boy. Hold them tight to your chest and never let them go. Even when they are as bloody foolish as yours are. But know that this dream is one that will fall."

Even as England turned his back on his old colony, even as he began walking away leaving America alone once again…. America found he felt better. Just seeing Arthur made his blood sing, and seeing England made his determination grow. He would show England, he would prove it to the old man, prove that he could be strong and win. Prove that, and when it was done… He had the vague impression that he would still have Arthur, even if he might not have England.

He would still have his friend, and his brother, his mentor and his lover.

And he would be free.

5


End file.
